Of Fallen Heroes and Broken Buildings
by cloudysunnyskies
Summary: /His Twin Towers, his legs. He can feel them breaking, ever so slowly; he can feel them being shattered and it's excruciating./ 9/11 tribute. Slight USUK.


It_ hurts_.

They're in the middle of a World Summit when it happens. Alfred can feel the rumbling in the base of his spine until it rips up his chest and explodes in front of his eyes, leaving nothing behind but burning stars and stripes in its wake. He's aware that he's screaming; he's also aware that the blood pooling on the ground he's currently writhing on is his, but he can't taste it as it coats his tongue and lips.

His Twin Towers, his_ legs_. He can feel them breaking, ever so slowly; he can feel them being shattered and it's excruciating.

His left leg goes first. He screams bloody murder as the bone shatters, splintering off into muscle and sinew and Alfred refuses to cry because_ heroes don't cry_, they _never _cry. He feels cold hands on his face, and they make the white pain recede for a split second. Alfred can see bright emerald eyes flooded with worry before the next sickening crack begins in his right leg as his eyes roll into his head. He screams again.

_Oh say can you see, by the dawn's early light, it hurts, it burns, just cut them off, please, someone, anyone, it hurts it hurts it hurts, make it stop..._

Someone tries to lift him up, and that just makes the pain in his legs increase tenfold. Alfred screeches-a kind of inhuman, blood-curdling shriek-and he lashes out wildly with his arms, his fist connecting with someone's face in the process. He doesn't care. The cold hands are on his face again and he struggles to focus on them instead of his mangled limbs.

_God bless America, land that I love, why oh why oh why did this have to happen, this hurts and I just want it to go away..._

Alfred doesn't just feel the pain in his legs, or the little electric jolts of misery that shoot through his body, making him twitch and spasm. No, the biggest ache is in the middle of his chest; his heart hurts for all the people he lost-his proud, beautiful people, and as his right leg shatters completely, he shrieks again. He curls up into a ball the best he can, despite his broken legs. Someone picks him up again, but black spots are slowly bleeding into his white vision, just like his blood seeps deeper into the fabric of his shirt. The cold hands are on his face again and the one thing Alfred can remember before he blacks out completely are the lyrics to his song, his favorite song.

_...O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave..._

**0w0w0w0w0**

The next time Alfred opens his eyes, he's staring at the blank white ceiling of the infirmary. His legs are bound in heavy white casts, and his throat is dry, so dry. He blinks a few times, getting used to feeling the numbness of morphine in his veins. He turns his head lethargically to the side, and Arthur is sitting there, quietly.

He has a black eye, and Alfred doesn't ask why it's there; he knows that he was the one who hit the other nation in the face in a moment of blind rage and pain. That doesn't stop him from reaching up and touching Arthur's face gently, almost clinically.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and Arthur offers a weak, tired smile in return; apology accepted.

"It's alright," Arthur replies, his accent soft and soothing. Alfred's hand is frozen underneath the bruised, swollen flesh, and it trembles ever so slightly. He looks up to his former owner and lets a very unheroic whimper escape him, and Arthur knows what he's supposed to do. He crawls in next to the beaten nation and wraps his arms around him tight as Alfred lets loose all his pain and rage and sadness. Arthur rubs his back and kisses his head as the other blond sobs into his chest, a stream of garbled apologies falling from the younger nation's lips, apologies that Arthur knows extends beyond a black eye.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

**0w0w0w0w0**

**Dedicated to those who gave and lost their lives during the tragedy of 9/11.  
**

**So...yes. Not my first Hetalia fiction, but the first one I'm posting on this site. First fic I've posted on this site period, actually. I wrote it a while ago while listening to Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol.  
There's USUK. It's there...if you squint...through a magnifying glass orz.  
I hope you liked it! Reviews are love, by the way. Wink wink nudge nudge.**

**-CSS**


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